44. Fear Itself

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She licked her plump, red lips, her hair appearing like fire around her head as the red lights shone between the thick strands.

The waves bounced as she walked in my direction, her fingers wrapping around the wooden chair in front of me before she took a seat. I watched her other hand slip between her a clump of the hair, toying with it while her eyes remained on my own dazed eyes.

Her hair is so beautiful, it's probably one of my favorite things about her. 

It's always perfect, even when she's just woken up. 

Even after we had sex. Her hair was still perfect, though, every bit of her is just the same-- perfect. 

But every insinuation that she's royally pissed at me about that day-- when it all went south-- is gone in this moment. Now, we're just two people.

Two normal people, and that's all I wanted.

When she finally sits in the chair across from me, her little black dress riding up her beautiful legs as she did so, I couldn't help but to smile.

Every stretch mark on her skin is perfect to me. Every single blemish or scar that exists on her thick thighs are all absolutely remarkable, and I just wish I wasn't too cowardly to tell her that. I wish I wasn't too cowardly to tell her that she's perfect and I'm the issue. 

Now is the only opportunity I feel strong enough to be honest, to be real. 

 When I open my mouth to tell her, something is covering my lips.

Something is prohibiting me from telling the truth, from revealing to her the words I've been thinking all along. A silk fabric is tied around my face and to the back of my head, keeping my mouth from moving properly. 

My brows furrowed as I tried to move my mouth against the fabric again, but all she did was smile. 

That smile. That's got to be my second favorite thing about her. 

It's so amazing that I nearly drop to my knees every time she does it. Every time her lips curl upwards-- even if she isn't showing teeth-- I want to drop to my knees and just be Peter Parker for her. I just want to be the perfectly normal guy I know she needs.

But I can't.

So here she is-- smiling. She's smiling at me struggling against the fabric on my lips, she's smiling as I mumble thoughtless words of plea into the silk.

She's enjoying it because she knows that I deserve it. I deserve to be watched like an animal, to be mocked and ignored. I've done her so wrong, and she knows it.

Good.

She should know her worth. She's better than me, and I'm fully aware. 

I got her a Christmas present. I never told her, and I'm not sure I'll get the chance to. Here we are now, and I deserve to struggle in front of her eyes. Now's not the time to tell her about the gift I got her.

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